


If the Fates Allow

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Drunk Steve, M/M, Pining, Presents, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s been driving me nuts. I couldn’t think of what to get you for the Winter Shopping Festival that’s appropriate to your retro lifestyle,” Tony said, his face looming into view above Steve. “Butter churn? Victrola?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Fates Allow

**Author's Note:**

> For my snow angels: devilpiglet and auslandischwasser.

“It’s been driving me nuts. I couldn’t think of what to get you for the Winter Shopping Festival that’s appropriate to your retro lifestyle,” Tony said, his face looming into view above Steve. “Butter churn? Victrola? A gross of those weird old-fashioned candies, like butterscotch buttons or what was it--horehound?” It wasn’t the best view, because, since Steve was basically lying upside down half on the couch and half on the floor, he was looking straight up Tony’s nose. 

Sam snickered.

“Mothballs,” Steve said wistfully, and took another swig from the last of his eggnog-flavored gely-pasty pouches that had been generously spiked with Asgardian liquor. Tony always called them his baby food.

“What?” Tony nearly shouted. “You ate mothballs? What the hell.”

It was Steve’s turn to snicker. “No, they were candies. Cream filberts. Some people called them snowballs or mothballs because they were little and round and white. They were my favorite.” Bucky’d bought him like a dozen once, Steve couldn’t remember why, only that he’d gotten pretty sick after eating all of them in quick succession.

“Oh. Thank god. I was afraid that was actually a thing. The past is another country, sure, but you guys were weird.”

“I like modern stuff,” Steve objected, and waved his squeezy pouch around for emphasis. “Look at what I’m eating right now.” He shouldn’t really like squeezies, they were such a waste of materials and yet one more thing contributing to overflowing landfills, like those damn coffee-maker plastic tubs, but they were so fun. An efficient delivery system for calories when he was active, and a hell of a lot better tasting than energy bars, which only reminded him too much of the sawdusty assault rations back in the war. An efficient delivery system for alcohol, too, they’d found after Tony had used a sterile pipette to put Thor’s magnificent Asgardian booze inside them. He became very drunk very fast. It was _awesome_. And awesome was a modern word when used that way.

From the coffee table where he was sprawled out, Clint said, “What about giving him something like vintage porn? You know, back in his day--in olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking...” He giggled. It had taken one drink of Thor’s stuff before Clint, Sam, and Tony were off their asses. For the rest of the evening they’d stuck to plain old Midgardian booze. 

“Now heaven knows, anything goes,” Sam and Tony crooned, and Bruce snorted from over in the corner of the huge sofa. He tended to avoid alcohol, he said the effects were unpredictable at best, but Tony had synthesized something that he called “a better version of ludes,” whatever that meant. Mostly it just seemed to make Bruce happier and more relaxed than Steve had ever seen him, and he sat curled in the corner, smiling, drinking plain eggnog. Steve turned his head slightly, toward the very pretty Christmas tree in the corner. When he looked at it, the multicolored lights were all blurry, and for some reason the tree made him sad, though he figured it _should_ make him happy. It wasn’t as bad a Christmas as last year--he had all these friends now, and he knew Bucky was alive and in the world, even if Steve didn’t know where.

“I don’t need porn, vintage or modern,” Steve said morosely. 

“No, what you need is to actually get laid,” Clint said. “Find yourself a nice chick to bang.”

“Ugh, gross,” Steve said, and added, “see? modern. ‘Gross’ was not used to mean ‘disgusting’ until the 1980s.” 

“Yeah. I don’t know why I said that, I never talk like that. Must be Stark’s terrible influence.”

“Hey! When have _I_ ever talked like that. I will fight you.” Tony put his fists up, but Clint wasn’t even looking in his direction. 

“Where is Thoooor? He was supposed to bring back more booze. I can feel it wearing off.” Steve held his pouch toward the ceiling, like Thor could see him from Asgard. “I’m on my last squeezy.” He sucked on it. “Mmm, eggnog.” 

“I think dairy and booze are a perfect combination, you know?” Sam said very gravely, like he was imparting deep wisdom. “Sweet, creamy, boozy. What’s not to love? Plus it just says Christmas to me.”

“I kind of feel like it was better when I was a kid, though.”

“Of course you do,” Clint said. “Everything was better when you were a kid, even though you wore shoes made of twine and cardboard, and you ate dirt for dinner except on Sunday when you had rocks, and walked uphill both ways to school in the snow.” 

“Well, Christmas was better when I was a kid.” That was his opinion and he was sticking to it.

“Oh, you never know,” Sam said, dreamy and far away, “I think this will be a Christmas you can get behind.”

“Christmas is _always_ better when you were a kid. For everyone.” Bruce was probably right, but Steve couldn’t really explain it. The world had changed so much, the holidays right along with it. All this new stuff layered on top of the old, and just that side of unfamiliar.

“This Christmas beats the hell out of last year’s,” Tony said. “Pepper’s at some girly shindig instead of falling off a two-hundred-foot crane, and Rhodey’s flying in for dinner tomorrow instead of trying to keep me from getting killed by a fire-breathing nutjob. I am a big fan of this Christmas.”

Steve sighed. “It was Bucky’s favorite. He fuckin’ loved Christmas. Just--everything about it, you know? Especially giving gifts, he loved that, and he’d remember stuff you mentioned liking or needing a year earlier and go get that thing.”

“Barnes?” Tony asked incredulously. “Loved holidays. Huh.”

“Yes, he loved holidays,” Steve snapped. Christ on a crutch. “Why is that so hard to believe? Because evil people turned him into an assassin? Like he was always that way? God dammit.”

“Steve...” Sam said, and maybe it was the booze talking because it’d been a long time since he’d been drunk, but Steve was simmering to a slow boil. 

“This--this greatest generation bullshit just kills me, the way everyone mythologizes us as if we were somehow better than anyone else. There was just as high a cost to doing our duty, and it makes us seem like somehow we were above all that stuff. But you know what? The war is what made Bucky a killer first, and even if he hadn’t been fucking tortured by Zola, I don’t think he’d have been the same guy in the end after what he’d seen. I wasn’t the same guy, either, by the time I went down. You know they handed out amphetamines like candy to keep us going in the field and keep planes flying, and you think that didn’t affect some of them? And fellas came home alcoholics because most of them drank like fiends over there whenever they got a chance, to forget, to cope.”

“I know, Cap, I’m sorry,” Clint said, and tried rather gracelessly to sit up on the coffee table. 

He was just drunk enough that he didn’t care if he was ranting. It felt good to say it. “It’s only--it’s only that everyone thinks we were all _so great_ but we were just human, and Bucky was just the nicest, most decent fella I ever knew and now all anyone thinks is that he’s a stone-cold murderer because of the unspeakable things they did to him. He was the sweetest guy you could ever meet. He loved his family, and me, and he was smart and funny and so, so charming. He’d sit for hours with his little sisters when they had tea parties or he’d fix their hair before school if his ma didn’t have time. He walked them to school every day and he doted on them. He’d give up playing tag or stickball to nursemaid me when Ma had to work. I mean, who does that? Who gives up being a kid to tend to their stupid sick friend?” 

“James Buchanan fuckin’ Barnes, that’s who,” Clint said, and raised his giant beer stein high.

“You’re damn right,” Steve said, feeling a bit better now. They all raised their glasses in a toast and said, “To James Buchanan fuckin’ Barnes.”

“I kind of feel you’ve been waiting seventy years to make that speech,” Tony said, and chuckled into his glass.

“A’ight, that’s me, out of here. Y’all are the sloppiest drunks I’ve ever seen,” Sam said, having to practically crawl out of the depths of the ginormous sectional. “Plus my mom is gonna kill me if I don’t get over there soon.” He nudged Steve with his foot. “You sure you don’t wanna join us? It’s Christmas Eve, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Steve was _such_ a modern guy. He said things like _awesome_ and _gross_ and _I’m good_ ; he couldn’t understand why everyone made fun of him. 

“You haven’t even put up lights or any decorations or anything. You have no freaking holiday spirit. Mom and Dad got enough holiday spirit, they can give you some of theirs.” Sam repeatedly tried to put his arm in his jacket, but wasn’t getting anywhere. Tony stood wobblingly and the two of them, like Avengers Laurel & Hardy, took about ten minutes to get Sam’s jacket half on before he finally gave up and pulled it over his shoulder like a cape. “Superheroes should wear capes, anyway. Thor’s got it right.”

“JARVIS, please have a car brought around for Mr. Wilson. He appears to be drunk and shouldn’t fly.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

Sam wobbled his way carefully, slowly toward the elevator, waving good-bye.

“Man, where is Thor, it’s been, like, an hour at least,” Clint muttered. “You don’t think his ogre of a dad corralled him and made him stay for princely business, do you?”

“He owes me more booze,” Steve said. He’d told Thor a few weeks ago that if he really could get Steve drunk and keep him there, that was all the Christmas present Steve would need from him. Sometimes he could feel the effects of booze though it never lasted. “Challenge happily accepted,” Thor had promised, and wow, did he deliver. 

“It’s probably a good thing the women aren’t here to see us like this,” Clint said.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise to any of them,” Tony said, falling back into the sofa. 

“If Nat or Kate heard you saying I should bang chicks, your days would be numbered,” Steve said brightly. Sometimes he thought Clint liked getting beat up by ladies. 

“You really do need to get laid, though.”

“I don’t know.” Steve said, and covered his face with his arm.

“Oh my god, are you a virgin?” Tony asked, becoming animated in a way he hadn’t been all night. “Are you really still a virgin?” He emphasized each word for good measure.

“Why is everyone so obsessed with virginity? It’s such a meaningless concept. It’s just a way to pass judgment on unmarried women when they aren’t, and to impart some kind of phony macho status on men. It’s so _stupid_.”

“That means he is,” Clint said as if he was mourning Steve’s lack of experience.

“I’m not a virgin. Christ almighty.”

“Agent Carter?” Tony asked, peering at him and taking a swig of his nog. 

“No, we never had time, and anyway, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. I am an officer and a gentleman.”

“I think the statute of limitations on kissing and telling cuts off at like a couple years, not seven decades.” Clint laughed at his own remarks.

“Oh my god,” Tony said. “You and Barnes were boinking, weren’t you? That’s why you mope around here since Insight and when you can’t find him on your latest excursions. That’s why you can say you weren’t a virgin but you never made it with Peggy Carter or, as far as historians have been able to tell, any other woman. Isn’t it? Oh, this is delicious.”

“Stop it. I’m not a virgin on--on either of those spectrums.” Steve sucked on the squeezy pouch.

“Every time you suck on one of those things it hollows out your cheeks and makes my dick twitch. And it’s been way too long since I made it with a guy, plus I’m on the straight and narrow now with Pep. Also your ridiculous pecs jump every time you wave it around, and you know how much that terrifies me.”

“You made it with a guy?” Clint asked and rolled back down on the coffee table, resting his stein on his chest. 

“Please. _A_ guy? You know there are as many rumors about my male friendships as there are for Cap’s. Poor Rhodey.” Clint made a face that said _good point_.

“You are punching _way_ above your weight class with Pepper,” Steve said, and Bruce barked out a laugh.

“Why do you think it took me so damn long to do anything about it? I figured if she could even deign to step out with me, it would take her, like, max two weeks before she realized what a horrendous mistake she’d made and I’d never see her again because I’d ruined everything, both personally and professionally. And stop trying to change the subject.” 

“Oh! I bet I know the story. You were on the USO tour.”

“Give the archer a gold star,” Steve said and sighed. If he was talking about his sex life, he was definitely, truly drunk.

“Why, Cap, you little dog.” Tony rubbed his hands together.

“Listen. They were just--a lot of them missed their fellas, you know? Or they didn’t have fellas, but they had desires.” Except the ones who didn’t go with fellas. “And I was a horny twenty-six-year-old in a brand new body that could do lots and lots of wonderful things, who couldn’t bang his best friend, and who was surrounded by a bevy of beautiful broads.”

“Did you just say ‘broads’?” Tony asked.

“You’re such a romantic, man,” Bruce piped up from his corner. Steve had almost forgotten he was there. 

“It was a different time. Like I was just saying. People want to think everything then was so pure and in black and white. But nothing is when there’s global war, and people are hurting and lonely and need to reach out.” Who was he trying to convince? He rolled up the squeezy pouch like a toothpaste tube and tried to get every last drop of liquor-infused gely-pasty stuff out of it. “I’m out of booze.” He didn’t know why but it made him want to cry.

“Here,” Tony said, and handed him a garish can.

Steve opened it and sipped, then sat bolt upright and spit the rest of it out. “Gah! That is _vile_! What the hell?”

“Yeah, but it’s got a lot of alcohol and sugar and caffeine. Maybe it’ll maintain your buzz till Thor gets back.”

Steve lay back down on the floor and pushed the can far away. “Sex wasn’t the only thing, you know. I helped them mend costumes, and they taught me to drive, and Karen taught me some German, which helped a lot when I got overseas.” Even though they were all long since passed away, he didn’t want their reputations sullied.

“Oh, settle down. I didn’t mean anything,” Tony insisted. “So you’re bi.” He tapped his glass. “I’ve seen those Citizens for Bisexual Captain America hashtags, but I just had no idea. Though teenage me with my giant crush on you would have been over the moon about it. You know what I don’t get is why the pairing name for you and Barnes is Stucky--it seems like there’s a perfect name with Buck Rogers. How come it’s not Buck Rogers? I like the one the fan writers use for me and Pep--Pepperony. That’s _awesome_.”

“There’s pairing names? For the Avengers?” Clint asked, trying to sit up, because apparently he was very, very interested in this. “Also, and I feel that perhaps this should be the most important point, you read fanfiction about yourself?” 

Tony looked at him like _duh_. “Only the sexy ones. They give me goals.”

Steve, however, was never amused by this--and it seemed like as good a time as any to leave. He hated these kinds of conversations with Tony: it was so invasive, this obsession with famous people, and he’d hated it when he first became Cap and he still hated it seventy years later.

“I’m heading out,” he said, and rolled up slowly. His head was swimming still. “Please make my apologies to the ladies, whenever they get back.”

“Aw, come on, we’ll stop talking about your lamentable lack of a current sex life. Don’t go back to your cheerless apartment with the bare Charlie Brown tree and listen to weepy Christmas music about missing your beloved.”

Steve swayed and rolled his eyes, saying, “If Thor gets back, have him bring that stuff to my floor. Also tell him to make it snow if he can. We could use fresh snow for Christmas, and the ladies will appreciate it.”

Steve staggered back to his floor. When he got inside, he sighed--it did look pretty spartan. He’d managed to put up one whole string of lights, which reminded him of the kind they’d had when he was little, small colored globes with a bumpy glass surface. But no ornaments, and half the presents he’d bought were still unwrapped. Pepper had given him some strings of thin copper wires with the tiniest little lights he’d ever seen--as well as some even tinier faerie lights, she called them, which he hadn’t yet taken out of their boxes--and a pretty gold-luster hurricane to put them in, so he went over and switched them on, got himself some water, and stared out the window, sobering up. From this high up, you couldn’t see how dirty the snow was, so the view seemed almost Christmasy with the city sparkling below. 

He’d spent the better part of this year searching for Bucky and had nothing to show for it except a lot of stamps in his passport, plus a few souvenirs for the others that now sat under the tree. A couple of the presents he’d even bought for Bucky--though he had no real hope of ever having the chance to give them to him. 

His friends meant well, Steve knew, but every time they tried to tease out the threads of what Bucky meant to him, it unraveled his own shoddily stitched-together acceptance of that, and painfully reopened wounds that were still far too fresh.

As the Asgardian liquor had worn off he’d gotten keyed up, so he put on the “Cap knit cap” that Darcy had knitted him and his heavy jacket, and headed to the elevator. “Hey, JARVIS, if Thor stops by, tell him I’m going for a walk and I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Yes, certainly, Captain. Although perhaps--I--oh,” there was a pause, and then JARVIS continued, “of course, Captain. I will notify him when he returns.” That was odd, Steve had never heard JARVIS almost stammer.

He went, unconsciously, in the direction of the park. Most of the snow piled up on the streets had by now accumulated that repulsive coating of dirt. If Thor could make it rain and thunder and lightning, then Steve figured he should be able to also give them a nice fresh snowfall to cover up all the ugly, too. What was the point of having the god of thunder as a pal, otherwise? Besides, it’d make Jane’s face light up like a sparkler.

There was hardly anyone out on the streets now, most folks had better places to be on Christmas Eve--well, it wasn’t really Eve anymore but Day. It seemed to be mostly people heading home from a night out, or probably folks who didn’t celebrate, and maybe the odd person like him who usually did but was feeling lost and blue. If he’d been smart, he might have taken Pepper’s advice to go somewhere warm and tropical before the holidays started.

Steve was almost halfway to Central Park when something hard hit him on the back of the head, hurling him forward. Holy hell. Cold exploded down the back of his collar and he whirled around to locate his assailant, but the only ones he spied were certainly not able to hit him that hard with a fucking snowball. He caught a glimpse of motion, a slight shimmer under a light, a figure in the shadows with a knit cap pulled low on his head, darting across the street. Though he was far away, it was obviously Clint--no one else could have hit Steve with such accuracy from that distance and Steve had seen him wear that jacket once before. “Barton!” Steve shouted. 

He hastily gathered some snow from atop a parked car and packed it tight, chasing after Clint, running up the street. Clint darted out from behind a truck and Steve hurled the snowball at him, catching him right in the middle of the back. He might not have been a marksman, but he was an ace snowball fighter. As soon as he leaned over to make another snowball, he got nailed on the side of the face. “Shit!” he shouted in surprise, wiping snow away and quickly packing some together to fire as Barton made for another car. 

He was going to get Clint, and get him good. “I’m gonna make you eat this filthy snow!” he yelled, dodging more of Clint’s projectiles. Steve picked up speed, packing snowballs and firing as fast as Clint did at him, as they raced along the streets and into the park, taking refuge just long enough to make ammunition and then running and throwing at top speed. He had to admire Clint’s arm--the guy could really throw, especially considering how drunk he’d seemed when Steve had left him. This was fucking _fun_ , and he thought, not for the first time, what a good friend Clint had turned out to be.

Steve stopped behind a shrub to pack up a really large snowball. He lost sight of Clint for a moment and when he looked up, received a huge snowball right in the face, knocking him back a few steps. _Oh, that did it._ He rolled up more snow, hefting it up so he could throw it like a giant-sized shot-put, waiting for Clint to reveal himself. As soon as Steve caught sight of movement--what did Clint think, that he wouldn’t see him in the low light?--he bounced up and down and fired, hitting Clint straight in the head with an explosion of white. “Ow!” Clint bellowed and ducked behind the trees again. Steve packed another large ball and waited. And waited. Clint was far too stealthy even for Steve to hear, he would probably come up on his six, so Steve whirled around and around, searching till he was dizzy. But there was nothing. 

This had been a good workout; Steve was actually sweating underneath his jacket, though some of the dampness was no doubt the snow that had made its way icily down his shirt. The hems of his jeans were soaked; after a few more minutes the sweat began to chill, the wet clothing was freezing against his skin. Well, it was fun while it lasted. Steve dropped the snowball and headed back the way he’d come in, working on a suitable apology for Clint once he showed himself. 

After a few yards, Steve heard a rustle off to his nine o’clock. Clint stepped out of the darkness and a string of tiny little amber lights that were draped around his neck flicked on--and Steve saw that it wasn’t Clint at all, but Bucky. “There was a fuckin’ huge rock in that last one,” Bucky said crossly, “and now I’m gonna have a bruise. That’s not playin’ by the rules, pal.”

“I--sorry--I,” Steve stammered, completely dumbfounded. His head swam, for a hysterical second he thought he might faint. “ _Buck_.” He tried to shake some clarity into his head. “Where’d you get those? How are they--”

“Stole ’em from you,” Bucky said, and held up a little box at the end of the string. “Battery pack. Ain’t the future just grand?”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.” Wait. “You stole them from me?” Bucky had been in his place?

“I was in your sad apartment most of the night, waiting for you. The building told me it’d let me know when you got back from being with your pals, so I went to find coffee, because your place was too depressing. Christ, haven’t you ever heard of Christmas spirit?” There was a fond, exasperated color to his voice.

“You’re not the first person to ask me that tonight.” He shook his head. “The building told you--oh, you mean JARVIS. He let you in? How did you find me?” God, Bucky was here and talking to him and lit up like an actual Christmas tree. He wasn’t at all certain what to do. 

“Your friend Wilson. It seemed easier, in a way, to start with him, and he...” Bucky hesitated, his hand clutching unconsciously at his chest, like it hurt him to talk about Sam, to recall what he’d done to him. “The first time I came here, the building talked to me and I panicked and ran. When I came back it said you’d told it to let me in or to patch me through if I called. Though, seriously, Steve, I haven’t been Sergeant Barnes for a lifetime.” There was the barest hint of a smile there, that soft, crooked one Bucky always gave him when he felt the most affectionate. 

“I just thought it might be easier all the way around.” He stepped forward and held his hands out, and Bucky took them with his own, ice cold, rough. They both must have had enough cold to last a lifetime, Steve thought as he rubbed some warmth into Bucky’s hands. Looking at him with the lights shining gold on his face, gleaming off his hair, Steve almost believed they were standing in a forest in Italy, hiding from the rest of the Commandos for a brief moment alone. How could they be so young and so old?

Bucky gave him that tolerant, faintly amused look and Steve nearly gasped with pleased astonishment. He pressed his forehead to Steve’s and said in his soft-rough voice, “I remembered you.”

“How long--I mean, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I thought maybe I’d never see you again.” 

“I know. It was hard for me, to deal with all the things...” He pulled back and glanced away toward the trees.

“I never held any of that against you. It wasn’t you. I knew that.” He rubbed his thumb across Bucky’s knuckles.

“Steve, I shot you four fuckin’ times. I nearly beat you to death. Might not have been my idea to begin with, but I’m still the one who shot you, in the end.”

“Three times. And who’s counting.”

“I winged you in the upper arm on the gangway. I’ve replayed _every single minute_ of that fight in my head, over and over till I wanted to vomit.” Bucky gave a bone-weary sigh and let Steve put his hand against his cold cheek. In the glow, Steve could see that Bucky really did have a nice red welt sporting up there on his right cheekbone, and he touched his fingertips to it gently. “I was in Prague, trying to track some intel, when I suddenly realized what time of year it was. All these things came flooding back to me: carols and oranges studded with cloves and the scent of those anise cookies your ma used to make, how dinner filled the house with amazing smells all day. And the lights, how much you liked the lights and the candles. Making snow angels, opening presents. You loved Christmas.”

Steve laughed softly and stroked his hair. “No, that was you. It was your favorite thing--all the decorations, the presents, god, you loved to give presents to your little sisters. And you especially loved the food, you could eat your body weight in cookies, I swear.”

Bucky closed his eyes, his face so pale and drawn under the lights. “Shit, I’m a mess. You see? I can’t even remember stuff I liked right.” 

“You’re fine. You’re more than fine.” His words caught in his throat like a sob. Bucky was a goddamn Christmas miracle was what he was, and Steve felt a desperate throb in his chest with the need to make Bucky understand that. “I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I’m not dreaming this and I’m not going to wake up to some guy in chains rattling around my bedroom, preparing to take me on some terrifying journey and teach me some existential Christmas lesson.” Bucky laughed and tucked his head into Steve’s shoulder. “You must hate the cold as much as I do. Let’s go back.”

“Yeah, I’m frozen. Though my lips are pretty warm. Want me to prove it?” he asked with such a saucy smile.

“Hell, yes.” Steve slid his arms around Bucky, leaned down to kiss him. His lips _were_ warm, his mouth hot and wet, and he twisted his fingers through Steve’s hair, pulling him closer, closer. “Come home with me? I know you’re probably not ready for a lot of people, but--” Steve felt the first snowflakes on his head before he saw them, and laughed. _Thor, I take back everything I said, you beautiful Norse god._ “We could make snow angels!” Steve said, opening his mouth to catch some flakes on his tongue. This type of joy had been lost to him for so long, left behind in a snowy mountain landscape and an icy ocean.

Bucky made a sour face. “Even I know it’ll take a lot more of the new stuff before I’m gonna lie down on top of New York snow.”

“Well, guess what? I know a place that’s got a spectacular view and perfect, pristine snow in a rooftop garden, and we’ll have it all to ourselves.” Bucky stared at him for a long time, studying him, until he pulled Steve’s mouth to his again and slid his hands inside Steve’s jacket. They kissed for a while longer, pressing tight, breathless and a little wild. Bucky’s hair was all mussed up, his mouth red and wet, his eyes glittering. Screw snow angels, they had seventy years of kissing and making love to catch up on and Bucky was the very picture of desire. Steve looped his fingers through Bucky’s as they turned in the direction of the tower. 

“We gotta decorate that sad tree of yours.” Bucky shook the light string around his neck. “And put the rest of these lights up. And then I wanna curl up under a blanket by the tree and neck with you till dawn.” Which wasn’t all that far away--still, Steve liked that plan very much. But Bucky stopped walking, his mouth twisted in a frown, his blue eyess fixed anxiously on Steve’s. “I...I didn’t think to stop and get you something. Get you a present.”

A tremble ran through him, not from the cold, Steve knew, but from happiness. Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand and leaned into him as they walked. “Idiot. You’re the best gift I could ever have.”

“Well, then, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” It really, really was.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from, of course, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
> 
> Feedback or recs are adored, and [reblogs on Tumblr](http://teatotally.tumblr.com/post/135394560940/fic-if-the-fates-allow) too!


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